


More Than Just A Hammer

by Eflauta



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Hammer of the Gods, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-04
Updated: 2014-07-04
Packaged: 2018-02-07 09:03:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1893225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eflauta/pseuds/Eflauta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Gabriel's death, Crowley can't help but pay him a visit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	More Than Just A Hammer

A dry thunder echoed distantly as the air hung stale and still around him. By now the lights had evened out, flickering only dimly in their spiky, modern chandeliers, Elysium Hotel still glowing blue on the front of the building. And so Crowley stood there. The building was empty, except for him, and some bodies - that’s all they were now, right? Just empty shells of Pagan gods, slain by Devil himself. They lay in a path, from the entrance to the main room, their blood putrid on the walls, pooling on the floor, meriting less than a sneer as he passed by them. They were fools, to think they could stand up to an archangel, bloody idiots - the lot. And now, they’d paid the price with their lives, just for a bit of self-preservational courage. At least he knew better than that - he’d been hiding under a rock ever since his name was outed, running the minute that his scent was caught. It wasn’t glamorous, or even comfy, and he was taking a Hell of a risk showing up here like this, but at least he was alive.

Which was more than he could say for Gabriel.

Splayed out on the floor, one pair of his six wings burned into ashes, his vessel, no - he, lay dead before him. Not a breath, not a thought, not a glimmer of grace - the image didn’t flicker, it didn’t fade, it didn’t waver, there was nothing artificial, nothing Trickster about this. The air even rang with the last echoes of his death, deafening in its silence, metallic from the outburst of unadulterated power. Power that never should have been tapped by the cut of a sword, power that belonged in that corpse on the floor, power that was just, simply - gone.  
  
The bloody idiot had gotten himself killed.  
  
Crowley had come as soon as he could - as soon as he had overheard that conversation in the back of the Impala. Dean, taunting Gabriel, Gabriel sassing back - it had seemed so benign until the very end. Until the Winchester had challenged him, until he’d thrown down the gauntlet, and then slammed the door. Unlike everyone else, he’d seen through to the issue, seen that it was one, big family feud that just needed a brother to end it. Somehow Michael’s vessels had said all the right words that had Gabriel banging his head on the seatback and then disappearing to stand up to his Brother.  
Crowley almost wished that he hadn’t bugged the car. Almost wished that he hadn’t left that coin, didn’t know where this was, hadn’t heard that conversation. Because if he hadn’t done that, then he wouldn’t be standing over the dead body of the only angel who’d ever given a damn about him.  
And damn it all to Hell, he’d scuffed the wing marks with his shoe prints. They were smudged, and he couldn’t change it, he couldn’t change a damn thing, not one buggering detail about this whole damn apocalypse, penned before time, carried out by fate, aligned by the bloody stars who call themselves angels.

Every bulb shattered.  
  
The tables were flung to the walls, the chairs clattering beneath them - a few of the errant tablecloths caught fire. It wasn’t all that important. Just objects. Just objects in a game, like the Pagans, like the demons, like Loki. Like him. They were just pawns, little pieces, smashed to bits if they stood up, and it wasn’t fair that they should live their lives as pieces on a chess board, it wasn’t fair that they just played their part and marched in one neat line, it wasn’t fair that they were cut off if they dared to deviate, it wasn’t fair that they should fear them, it wasn’t fair that they had reason, it wasn’t fair that they should die, it wasn’t fair, it wasn’t fair, it wasn’t fair -

that Gabriel was gone.

His tailor would kill him for this, but he crouched down in the ashes, the last thoughts of his wings clinging tight to his trousers as he sat down, and took Gabriel’s hand. It was cold - the warmth of his grace gone, the heart no longer beating. He’d been strangely human like that. Candy, and call-girls, and sex, at odd hours. He’d liked chocolate, and cake, and twisted revenge, and he would never, ever, ever Trick him again. Crowley would never wake up to the sound of a lollipop clicking against teeth a few feet across the room. He would never find his Hell hounds dyed rainbow, or the gourmet food in his cupboard all turned to desserts. There would never be another day when he would find that every door led to his bedroom, and that all his clothes had disappeared. The soft and gentle touches still ghosted over his skin as the memories flashed by, as he gripped his hand a slight bit tighter, and brushed back his golden hair. His wings were gone, his eyes were dead, and he would never move again. Stolen encounters between Heaven and Hell rose in the waters of Crowley’s mind, each instance a buoy, a light in the dark. Pancakes on Tuesdays - he’d never asked why, Snickers with strippers, and sex on an old stage. A kiss in a closet - cliché as you got, and dinner in Paris, because, well, why not? Briefest moments, caught in passing - a smirk as he rounded the corner, a visit to his home. Sometimes it was just a book, left on his desk-chair, signed with a smilie under the cover.

But.

That was over now.

The hand that had shifted to cup Gabriel’s face, moved to flatten across his chest - he couldn’t help but keep it just above the blood. If he had been an hour sooner - well, he’d just be dead too. There wasn’t anything that could change the books of Death, not when God had preordained their Fate. But how he wished that he could sell, his nonexistent soul for grace - his kingdom for an angel’s life. How he wished, that that would work. Deals were the Devil’s game, but now the Devil was on earth, and Crowley found himself, helpless. No words, no spells, no bargaining, could ever undo the cut of that blade, could mend his slain grace, could resurrect the Archangel. No number of demons, or manner of angels could change Lucifer’s actions. And so Crowley leaned in, and gave one last kiss, before he leaned back and snapped - just for old time’s sake - and less than a moment, he was gone.


End file.
